Until the moth takes
wing light on dark
on your dark eye
I cannot express.

Hold up a flashlight
to things themselves;
separate the body
into day and night.

Across your screen
the moth wings
are many and pressings
wrinkled hands cupping

and dropping the dark.
Overhead a light
aurora performs its
handless weavings.

These are our angels:
the luminous who sing
in light of things
as they truly are.

That your dark eye
wing light on dark
might tear a part
for the daytime

I reach overhead.
I caress the mothlight
and with its dust
I mark my breath.